


Dew

by wednesday



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Getting Together, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 06:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26348734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/pseuds/wednesday
Summary: The Toussaint sky is full of stars and the moon is gibbous besides, and even in the darkest of nights neither of them would be so badly off as to stumble around. But Ciri wants to stop, so Geralt nods and says, “Might as well.”
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 4
Kudos: 151
Collections: Press Start VI





	Dew

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/gifts).



“Let’s stop,” Ciri says. “It’s well and truly night. Better we sleep here than stumble around in the dark the rest of the way home.” 

The Toussaint sky is full of stars and the moon is gibbous besides, and even in the darkest of nights neither of them would be so badly off as to stumble around. But Ciri wants to stop, so Geralt nods and says, “Might as well.” 

They walk across the field, evening dew from the grass catching on their boots and trousers. There’s an empty shepherd’s shelter on the far edge, just a stall without any real walls. But it has a roof and there’s a pile of mostly dry hay underneath that roof. 

Ciri sits down on the hay with a quiet sigh and unbuckles her sword belts, then starts taking off her damp boots. Maybe she’s more tired than Geralt realized. The day has been easy even if it was long, but sometimes he still can’t quite estimate how to translate the drain on his own witcher stamina to what a human is comfortable with. 

Geralt considers the circle of blackened stones for a moment. It’s warm and the stars are bright. In the end he lights a small stack of branches anyway. 

When he sits down, Ciri is already done with her boots and bracers and has moved on to taking off her blouse. He looks away. The easy silence feels easy just the same. 

The air is warm and fragrant, the sky impossibly wide, and together they’ve killed all the monsters for miles and miles. It’s both strange and enchanting, being able to sleep under the stars and not worry about the elements or monsters or even angry locals. Toussaint is unnaturally kind in a way that sometimes makes Geralt feel like time has stopped here. Other times it makes him ache with longing for something he doesn’t have a name for. 

Like now – Ciri is bare from the waist up, inspecting a scratch on her side. It really is just a scratch. Geralt thinks she might have gotten it from a stray branch rather than an angry arachas. Their swords are leaning against the side of the shelter, side by side and hers covered in just as much blood and venom as his. 

She’s all grown. 

It’s strange how that feels now, in the silent, slow moments – Ciri all grown, at his side. The most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and the most deadly, and sometimes he’s scared to look at her directly, but scared to look away even for a moment, too 

And then she looks up, smiles at him. 

“Are you going to sleep in all that?” She nods at Geralt’s armor. 

“I can meditate.” 

Ciri makes a face at that and knee-walks closer until she’s kneeling at Geralt’s back. When she starts unbuckling his armor, he sighs with feigned reluctance and only half feigned exasperation and helps her. They keep reaching for the same buckles and her hands brush against his again and again. 

When he’s finally free of the armor, he almost breathes a sigh of relief. Reaches for the waterskin. And promptly almost chokes on the water when Ciri gets even closer and starts running her hands through Geralt’s hair. 

Her fingers catch on tangles and she sets to work untangling what seems like every single tangle Geralt’s ever had. And unavoidably, every time she starts on a new one, she pulls on his hair just hard enough that he _feels it_. 

He holds still at first, and after a while starts on his own boots, careful to push down the urge to shiver. It only half works – he still feels every pull as a jolt starting at his scalp and running down his spine, all the way to his toes. By the time Ciri’s done, Geralt has taken his boots off, drank some more water and is counting his breaths carefully. 

This is the part of having Ciri all to himself, no one after their heads, that Geralt isn’t so good at dealing with. He feels like he knows what to do, what he wants to do. 

But it’s _Ciri_. He can’t– 

He knows this isn’t what it sometimes feels like. More and more often, now that they hunt together, live together, just the two of them, and Ciri calls his house their home. But he still has to count his breaths to stop the shivers from breaking across his skin, from leaning his head back into her hands with a whine, baring his throat. 

Ciri puts their boots closer to the fire to dry and flattens some of the hay until it looks almost inviting. She stares at Geralt with a challenge in her eyes until he acquiesces and lies down. There isn’t any reason why he shouldn’t. They’ve stopped to sleep and it only makes sense that he should sleep. No reason not to except– 

Except this. 

Ciri lying down at his side, putting her arm over him. He thinks about his breaths again. He could fall asleep like that, fall into a meditation that would soon enough flow into true sleep. He’s done it in times and places far more distracting and infinitely more unpleasant, when he needed the rest. The problem then is this – it isn’t unpleasant at all, having Ciri at his side, so close their warmth mingles together. 

It is far too pleasant, and he could maybe ignore that as well – he has some amount of practice now – but Ciri starts tracing idle patterns over his ribs, his chest, his shoulder. Her fingers trail over his nipple and Geralt knows he inhales too sharply. He should stop her, except what reason could he give for it? (Would she be able to see the lie, if he claimed he wanted her to stop?) 

Geralt says nothing so Ciri doesn’t stop. She retraces the swirls and lines of her imagination across his chest several times. And then her fingers trail lower, trace down over his abs. She gets almost to the edge of his trousers. 

Geralt finally, finally grabs her wrist and with a low growl rolls over, pins Ciri’s hand by her head. 

“ _Ciri_ ,” he says, with as much warning in his voice as he can call up. 

He expects her to be surprised by the vehement reaction. Maybe a frown, a widening of her eyes in mild alarm. 

He finds none of that where moonlight and the faint flickers of the fire meet on her face. She’s not quite smiling, even though the corners of her mouth are curving up. It’s her eyes – there’s a stubborn light in them that he recognizes. A challenge. 

“Geralt.” She sounds all made of challenge, too. 

“What are you _doing_?” he breathes, and– 

The possibility that none of her touches tonight have been accidental hits him only now, and with a force that staggers him, leaves him unsteady. It doesn’t feel like clarity at all; it feels like he’s blinded by it. 

He inhales deeply, closes his eyes and presses his forehead to Ciri’s. When she reaches for him with her free hand, Geralt catches it easily and presses it down, holds it firmly. And then he barely has to tilt his head to kiss her. So he does it – tilts his head and presses their mouths together into a kiss, because Ciri wants him to. (And that feels– He’s not sure where to put that thought inside his head, what he should carve out to make place for something so immense.) And because he really really wants to. 

Ciri jumps into the kiss as if it were a battle. She tries to deepen it at once and Geralt lets her, he memorizes the feel of her tongue sliding against his, the bite of her teeth against his lips, the heat of it, and then he eases back, eyes still closed. Ciri tries to follow him, but Geralt holds her wrists and holds himself back when she arches up to try and get closer to him. 

“Ciri,” he sighs, “what are you doing?” As if she’s the only one at fault here, but Geralt wouldn’t have–– He never would have–– 

Ciri exhales loud enough that her frustration is unmistakable and stops trying to draw him back into another kiss. “I’ve heard you, you know,” she says. “I’ve heard how you say my name sometimes, when you think no one can hear.” 

He’s only confused for a second or two, until his mind calls up all the times he hasn’t been able to hold back from thinking of her as he brings himself off in his far too soft bed in their far too lovely home. Hasn’t been able to keep silent, too, apparently. 

“That’s not–” he has no idea how to explain that, how to lie his way out of it. He doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know what she’s speaking of. It only occurs to him that he should have a moment after it’s too late. Not that Ciri would have believed that lie anyway. 

“ _You_ weren’t doing anything about it, and I got tired of waiting,” she says. As if it’s that simple. As if it’s something he could have done something about, as if it’s something he’s allowed to think and want and take. 

“We can’t.” 

Ciri doesn’t say anything to that, but he can feel her disagreement as if it were a physical thing. Then she hooks her leg around his side and with a move he should have seen coming rolls them over until Geralt is on his back and Ciri’s straddling him. 

Her wrists are still gathered in his hands. 

“Geralt,” she breathes his name in a way he’s never heard, not from her. It sounds like he must have sounded when she overheard – breathless and pleading. 

With a wounded sound he doesn’t mean to make, he pulls her down and kisses her again, hard and desperate. And Ciri kisses back just as hard and pushes closer. She doesn’t bother pretending at any kind of coyness – the moment Geralt releases her hands to reach for her face, Ciri starts pulling at the ties of his trousers. Distracted as they are by the taste of each other’s mouths, it takes them a long minute to get their remaining clothes open. 

And then it’s done and Ciri reaches for his cock, takes it in her hand, wraps her sword–calloused fingers as far around it as she can. Geralt makes another a desperate sound and pushes into the circle of her fingers, arches up, lifts her off the ground with him. 

He could come like this, just from this, and for a moment it almost feels like he will. But it’s Ciri above him, Ciri touching him, and he always wants more of her than he should. 

Another roll puts her under him again. Geralt pushes at her trousers blindly, tries to get them down her hips, unable to stop kissing her even for a moment, and Ciri lets go of him to help. She kicks the trousers off and that’s it – them, completely bare against each other. 

For a still minute Geralt stays just like that, pressed together, overwhelmed by Ciri, here, _like this_. 

Then she wraps her legs around him and tilts her hips up and–– She’s wet and hot and impossible against him. He doesn’t try to resist at all, not any more. He reaches between them, positions himself and slowly, _slowly_ pushes inside her. 

Ciri’s head falls back, eyes closed and lips parted. She breathes out and then gasps for a breath that Geralt’s next thrust turns into a low moan. He keeps going, watching her face, watching how her breaths speed up, and pushing deeper every time it looks like she’s getting used to the feel of him inside her. 

And then he’s all the way in. Stopping feels impossible, but he does it anyway, pauses to make sure he won’t hurt her. There’s sweat on his brow, stinging his eyes already. He has to focus to keep himself still, to ignore the way his body wants to go hard and fast and never stop. 

Ciri’s holding on to him, fingers digging into Geralt’s shoulders, the back of his neck, pulling his hair until his cock feels harder than it’s ever been before. 

Her breathing doesn’t slow much. Geralt runs his fingers up her neck, touches her pulse on the side of it and Ciri gasps, arches her back and moves her hips and–– 

And Geralt thrusts once, in response, and then he can no longer hold back. He’s not sure he tries hard enough – it’s Ciri, and he should always always be gentle with Ciri, but all he can think of now is the sweetness and the heat of her body gripping him, pulling him back in every time he pulls his cock out. And every time he thrusts harder, Ciri’s breath hitches and her thighs tighten around him, so he does it again and again. 

He wants her and wants her and wants her, and he stops trying not to. He hasn’t been very good at that anyway. 

So instead he takes her, fucks her until her soft sounds turn into what would be screams, if she had enough air in her lungs to scream with. He barely holds on long enough. The way she looks and feels and sounds, the taste of her mouth and her sweat and her skin underneath it intoxicates him more than any potion. Without thinking about it his fingers find their way back to the racing pulse on the side of her neck. 

He feels her tremble and tighten even more, and he wants to watch her face through this too, but instead he whispers her name and comes so hard he’s dizzy with it. 

Afterwards he doesn’t want to let her go, so he rolls them to their sides without untangling their limbs. Ciri’s fingers start tracing slow, unsteady patterns on his back. She breathes unsteadily too, like she never has after any fight that he’s seen her win. Geralt holds her close and keeps her warm, and thinks about going home together until he dreams of it instead. 


End file.
